


Texting The Runes

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (BBC)
Genre: Gen, ficathon: spook_me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bloody and impossible murder sends Sherlock and John on the trail of a very strange killer</p>
            </blockquote>





	Texting The Runes

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks go to rhianne and suemc on LJ for their invaluable betaing and Brit-picking. This is a far better story for their input. I can't help picking at things, though, so all mistakes herein are mine. This is the first time I've written something long and plotty that's not set in the US, and let me just say that I have a whole new level of admiration for people who write outside their language and/or culture. Google can only get you so far.
> 
> This was intended to be my entry for the spook_me ficathon on LJ (ugh, only _five months_ past the deadline; well done). My creature was demon, and the pulp covers I got had demons on them as well. So what came to mind was a pastiche of - homage to? - the classic horror movie "[Curse of the Demon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curse_of_the_Demon)" ("Night of the Demon" for those of you in the UK), which was itself based on the Victorian horror story "[Casting The Runes](http://www.classicreader.com/book/1833/1/)" by M.R. James. Because one update of a classic deserves another.
> 
> Done for love, not profit. Most of the characters and settings in this story belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, as well as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. John Holden belongs to Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester, as do the inspirations for Charles Simpson, Robert Cavanaugh, and Joanna Farrier. I've shamlessly nicked some dialogue from Mark Gatiss; Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester; and Michael Robert Johnson, Anthony Peckham, and Simon Kinburg. And the image of the runes was taken from the movie as well (not sure who to credit for that).

The room was an abattoir. There was no other word for it. The walls were spattered with blood; the carpet soaked in it, and the mangled body on the rug in front of the fireplace was barely recognizable as human. The smell was heavy and cloying, and all too familiar, and for just a moment John heard the bark of sub-machine guns and felt the heat of sun and the grit of sand before he was able to push the memory away.

He was glad for the protective suit they’d made him don, even if it was only paper. Sherlock, of course, strode in unsuited, pulling off his gloves as if he was at a garden party. Eyes gleaming, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth, he turned on his heel in a slow circle, surveying the carnage. “Excellent,” he murmured under his breath. “John - time of death?”

John knelt at the side of the body and carefully tried to move what was left of an arm. Cool to the touch and very rigid. He leaned down and pressed a finger to the flesh resting on the floor. No change in the color. “A day, maybe two,” he said.

Sherlock frowned. “Not very precise.”

“Bit difficult to be precise when there’s this much damage. The chaps at the morgue will be able to tell you more.”

“Lestrade?”

“We think the victim was one Harry Williamson, a barrister with Firth and Macklin downtown,” the DI replied, leaning against the door frame. “Last anyone saw him was Friday night – he’d reportedly said he was going home after having a pint with his co-workers.” He flipped through a few pages in his notepad. “No signs of forced entry. Doors locked – yes, and windows, too, Sherlock. From the inside. I read Dimmock’s write-up of that case with the Chinese acrobats.”

John had been examining the body while they talked. “These wounds,” he said slowly, uncertain, “there’s something… odd about them.”

In a flash Sherlock was down on one knee next to him, his pocket magnifying glass out, leaning over the corpse.

“Odd how?” asked Lestrade.

“They… don’t look like knife wounds – too ragged for that. And yet they’re clearly gashes, not crush wounds from a blunt instrument or holes from a bullet.”

“They’re claw marks,” Sherlock said, snapping his glass closed.

“Claw marks? What, from an animal?” This from Lestrade, sounding shocked.

Sherlock didn’t respond, but swept into the kitchen instead, and from the sound of things John surmised that he was going through all the cupboards. _Animal?_ Lestrade mouthed at him, and he shrugged.

Lestrade tried again. “So, we’re not looking at a homicide, then?”

“No, of course we are,” Sherlock said irritably, coming back into the lounge. “Someone had to get it in here, and out again.”

“Maybe it was a pet?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “He didn’t have any pet supplies – plus, he’s allergic.”

“How did you – never mind.”

“Hand vacuums, one in here and one in the kitchen. But dirty dishes in the sink, at least several days old. So – not a neat freak, but someone who needs to hoover frequently. Why? Allergic – dust and pet hair being the most common ones.”

Despite his resolve not to feed Sherlock’s ego any more than was absolutely necessary, John couldn’t resist flashing a look of admiration at his friend. But there was something about Sherlock’s analysis that was bothering him. “I’m not an expert on animal attacks,” he said, rising to his feet, “but… to make wounds of that size, Sherlock, wouldn’t the animal have to be….”

“Eight to nine feet tall,” Sherlock agreed.

Lestrade gaped at the two of them in astonishment. “That’s… that’s impossible. A creature of that size would barely fit in here.”

“Just,” Sherlock agreed, nodding, as he gazed around the room.

“I mean… what are we talking about here? A bear? Some kind of giant hound? Something that escaped from a zoo?”

“Not sure yet,” Sherlock said slowly, tapping his fingers against his chin.

“Listen.” Lestrade moved in close to both of them and lowered his voice. “We’re trying to keep this quiet, but if news of this gets out, there’s going to be a lot of questions and no little amount of panic. I need answers, quickly, and I need them to _not_ be ‘Huge wild animal running amok through London’.”

“Mobile,” Sherlock said, pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket.

“What?”

“Phone. Do you have his phone?”

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, and, with an irritable exhale, marched over to the door into the flat. “Donovan!” he shouted.

“What?” came from downstairs.

“Did the vic have a mobile?”

She brought it upstairs and handed it over, shooting a glare at Sherlock, which he ignored completely as he turned it on and scrolled through the display. “Ah, here we go,” he said, his tone satisfied. “Last call, probably not too long before death, given the broad estimate,” he gave John a look at this, and John rolled his eyes in response, “to a John Holden.”

Sherlock paged through the contacts, then handed the phone back to Lestrade. “Psychologist; has an office near the middle of London. We’ll follow up on that. Have them take samples of everything and send them to the lab at Bart’s.” He swept out of the room and down the stairs.

John gave Lestrade an apologetic glance. “Thanks, we’ll be in touch,” he said, and followed Sherlock out into the street.

***

They’d been in the taxi for several minutes when John grew impatient at the silence. “So?” he asked.

“What?”

“What’s your theory? I know you’ve got one.”

“Haven’t yet,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. “Don’t have enough data.” He glanced sideways at John. “Only amateurs theorize before there’s enough data. Theories distort the way you see. Invariably you come to only see things that fit with the theory, instead of observing what’s really there.”

“But you can’t really think… I mean, seriously, Sherlock – a wild animal?”

“Lestrade said that, not me.”

“But—”

“John.” Sherlock interrupted him. “Have I mentioned that one of the things I find most valuable about you as a flatmate is your gift of being silent when it’s needed?” The amused glint in his eyes took the sting out of his words, though, and John sat back, smiling a little, and resigned himself to being quiet. Not that he’d ever taken much offense at what Sherlock said.

There’d been times, he had to admit, when he’d wondered why Sherlock tolerated him, wondered exactly what skills he brought to this partnership. But since their trial by fire – and water – at Moriarty’s hands, he didn’t find himself wondering that much anymore.

The taxi pulled up outside a small, fashionable block of offices; new, but built to look old, with a stately stone facade. Within moments they had found Holden’s name on the directory and were standing in front of his receptionist.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, flashing Lestrade’s badge, “and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We need to speak to Dr. Holden immediately. Police business.”

They were shown into a small office, furnished plainly but comfortably with a desk, a sofa, and a few chairs. There was a table in front of the sofa that held a carafe of water and glasses, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. Holden was seated at the desk when they entered; middle-aged but handsome, dark-haired, dressed conservatively in a grey suit and dark blue tie. He rose and came around to greet them, hand extended. “Gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“Do you know a barrister by the name of Harry Williamson?” Sherlock asked.

Holden’s brows drew together in confusion. “Yes. Why?”

“He was murdered last night.”

The colour drained from Holden’s face and he collapsed weakly onto the couch. “What?” he gasped.

John grabbed the water and poured some into one of the glasses, then sat on the couch next to Holden and pressed it into his hands, surreptitiously taking Holden’s pulse as he did so. Fast, but strong and steady.

“Murdered,” Sherlock said, evenly. “In his flat. Last night. Apparently shortly after he called you.”

“Dear God, how?”

Sherlock said nothing. John looked over at him; his gaze was fixed on Holden. “Ah… we’re not sure, yet,” he jumped in, covering for Sherlock’s lapse. “What did he call you about?”

Holden gulped some water and loosened his tie. “I… I thought he was drunk. He was wild, ranting about… I thought he was just being paranoid… you see, it’s this case we’ve been working on….”

Sherlock sat in one of the chairs and leaned forward, eyeing Holden intently. “Tell me everything.”

“He’s defending this kid, Robert Cavanaugh—”

“The one who’s accused of murdering that young girl, Katie Parrish,” John broke in. “I’ve read about that in the paper.” He shook his head. “Bad business.”

“Yes. But Harry thinks the boy isn’t fully responsible.”

“So he called you in to consult,” said Sherlock. “Because he thought Cavanaugh was being brainwashed.”

Holden shot a startled look at Sherlock. “How… how did you?...”

“Never mind.” Sherlock leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Please continue.”

“Cavanaugh was living outside of London on an estate, Lufford Hall. It’s become kind of an informal group home for troubled adolescents. It’s run by a man named Charles Simpson.” He looked at Sherlock. “Harry thinks Simpson coerced Cavanaugh into committing the murder.”

“Why would Simpson do such a thing?” John asked.

Holden shook his head. “No idea. And Harry never told me exactly why he thought that. Said he wanted me to hear Cavanaugh’s story for myself. But Cavanaugh won’t talk to me. Ever since about a week ago, he’s refused to talk to me, refused to talk to Harry; refused all visitors and phone calls, even.”

There was silence for a few moments after that statement, then Sherlock spoke up. “What else?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“There’s something else you’re not telling us,” Sherlock said.

“Oh… it’s nothing, it’s ridiculous,” Holden replied.

“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind. What is it?”

Holden glanced at John and then back to Sherlock, looking faintly embarrassed. “Well, it’s just… Simpson’s been harassing us. Fairly juvenile attempt, if you ask me. And stupid. It’s not like this isn’t going to come out in court.”

“Harassing you?” John said. “How?”

“He’s been sending us these texts.” Holden drew his phone out of his pocket and tapped it a few times, then handed it over to John. There was a text pulled up on the display, but the sender was blocked. The header read, “In memoriam: John Holden, allowed 48 hours.” Underneath that, in the body of the text, was a double string of odd figures:

“Looks like some sort of ancient writing or something,” John mused. Sherlock held his hand out imperiously and John turned the phone over to him. “How’d you know Simpson sent them?” he asked Holden. “It said the number was blocked.”

“He called us and told us. Well, he told Harry, and Harry told me. I wouldn’t answer his call. I don’t have time for these sorts of games.”

“According to the time stamp on this,” Sherlock said, looking up at Holden, “your ‘allowed’ time ends tonight.”

Holden shrugged. “It’s nonsense,” he said.

“And Williamson agreed with you about that,” Sherlock said. “Until last night....”

“He called me, raving like a lunatic, panicked, paranoid. He said he was being followed; he said he’d asked Simpson to ‘call it off’, but Simpson had refused.” Holden ran a hand through his hair. “I thought he was drunk. Thought maybe the stress of the case had got to him a little. I told him to drink a glass of water and try to get some rest, we’d sort it all out Monday morning.” He gave Sherlock a sharp look. “So you think Simpson had something to do with Harry’s death?”

“Yes.”

“But… but why? And how?”

“I’m not sure. But I’d be quite careful who you let into your flat tonight.” He handed Holden’s phone back to him. “Come along, John. We have a train to catch.”

***  
“I think you’d better let me break the news next time,” John said, once they’d got a taxi and were heading for Victoria Station.

“Why?”

He sighed. “Sherlock, I know you don’t care about observing social niceties, but there are ways to tell someone bad news that don’t result in them nearly passing out from shock.”

“Is that what you think I was doing? Ignoring social niceties?”

“Knowing you, yeah.”

Sherlock smiled. “But if I had broken the news to Holden gently, I wouldn’t be convinced that he isn’t involved in Williamson’s murder.”

It took John a few moments to work that out. “You mean you shocked him on purpose?”

“And, as a result, knew that he hadn’t known anything about Williamson’s murder until we walked in. You can’t fake that kind of reaction, John.”

“But… but….” he spluttered, outraged on Holden’s behalf. “You’ve purposely frightened that man for no good reason…”

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock said, frowning. “He has a very good reason to be afraid.”

“He does?”

“Of course. His colleague received a threatening text, and then he received one shortly afterwards. Now his colleague has been murdered. The logical conclusion is that he’ll be the next victim.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” It had been a while since he’d felt this annoyed by Sherlock’s lack of empathy. “You’ve got to call Lestrade or something. You can’t just let that man sit in his flat and wait to be attacked!”

“Call Lestrade and tell him what?” Now it was Sherlock’s tone that was angry. “I think Holden’s in danger but I can’t explain why? Or from whom he needs protection? What good will that do? They’ll have too many questions; it’ll take too much time.”

But John wasn’t going to back down this time. “Don’t be an idiot. Lestrade will believe you, you know he will. He’ll moan and groan but he knows you’re usually right, even when you can’t give details.”

Sherlock gave an exasperated huff, but pulled his phone out of his pocket as the taxi stopped in front of the station. He was dialing as he exited the taxi; John stayed behind to pay the fare, so the only part of the conversation he heard as he caught up to Sherlock in the entryway was a clipped “thank you”. “He’s out,” Sherlock informed him, “but I’ve left a message telling him to send someone over to keep an eye on Holden.”

“Thanks,” he said, feeling somewhat surprised, as he always did when Sherlock actually listened to him. “That’s… that’s good. Where are we going, by the way?”

“Lufford Hall, of course,” Sherlock replied absently, scanning the overhead timetables.

“Wait… so we’re going to talk to Simpson? You really think he’s involved?”

“Why is it,” Sherlock asked, irritation plain on his face, “that when I use short and simple words, no one listens to me? Yes, I think Simpson’s involved.”

“But… wouldn’t that be unbelievably stupid of him to show his hand by sending those messages?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Yes. Which either means he is quite stupid, he isn’t involved, or….” He paused, then grinned. “…he thinks he’s got an airtight alibi. Love those, they’re always great fun.” He strode off in the direction of the ticket machines. “Come on, John, our train leaves in twenty minutes.”

The queues at Victoria were always ridiculously long, even on a Sunday, so while Sherlock got the tickets, John grabbed a sandwich and a cup of tea at one of the shops. As the train cleared the station, he ate and read over Sherlock’s shoulder as the other man opened up his netbook and started searching for information about Charles Simpson and Lufford Hall.

“Hm,” Sherlock mused, drumming his fingers against his knee. They’d been browsing for nearly an hour. Fortunately the train was almost empty; not much traffic on Sundays, so they could discuss things in relative privacy. “There’s not much here. Seems to have come into a windfall about five years ago; he bought the place and fixed it up a bit, then started bringing in boarders two years ago. Doesn’t advertise; gets all his clients through word of mouth.”

“And his neighbors don’t seem to like him much,” John added, pointing at a forum site Sherlock had found.

“Yes. Just the usual complaints about teenagers, though: music too loud, kids walking about in the village at all hours, some concerns about vandalism. Nothing really interesting.” Sherlock glanced out the window and closed his computer. “Looks like we’re nearly there.”

“How did you know about Holden’s role in the Cavanaugh case, anyway?” John asked. The question had been nagging at him ever since they’d left Holden’s office.

“Books,” Sherlock said succinctly. “He had a number of books on hypnosis, as well as brainwashing and deprogramming. Middle shelf, spines well worn, so used fairly often. Not hard to deduce from that that his expertise is in alternate states of consciousness, which explains why Williamson would consult him, if he believed that his client was being coerced or was otherwise not responsible for his actions.”

John shook his head. “Amazing,” he murmured.

Sherlock chuckled. “Not really,” he said. “What’s amazing is that people don’t think about what their taste in books reveals about them.” He rose and headed for the exit door. “This is our stop, I believe.”

They caught a taxi at the station, which deposited them at the gates of an imposing brick house. Three stories tall, it stretched out in two broad wings to either side of the main entrance. The remnants of a stone wall that marched off to the left suggested that the house had once sat on a large tract of land, but time and need had whittled it down to a more moderate plot. Although John could glimpse, in the back, what looked like a fairly expansive space, framed on three sides by tall oaks. There was a group of boys playing football over in the side yard; they stopped and watched sullenly as John followed Sherlock up the path towards the front door.

A young girl was sitting on the porch; she stood as they approached, laying the book she had been reading on her chair. She was tall and slim, with blond hair pulled back into a snug ponytail and an unfriendly look on her face. “Good afternoon,” Sherlock said, putting on what John had come to call his ‘affable face’. “Is Mr. Simpson at home?”

She looked them up and down warily. “And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We’re here to talk to him about Robert Cavanaugh.”

John watched as her expression became smooth and bland. “Just a moment, please,” she said, then turned and entered the house.

A few minutes later the door opened, and an older man, blond and urbane, was extending his hand to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, is it? And Dr. Watson? I’m Charles Simpson. A pleasure to meet you… both.” He reached out to shake John’s hand as well. “Please come inside.”

They followed Simpson through a high, airy hall and into a small study. An ornately carved wooden desk stood in the corner, flanked by two large, high bookshelves. The wood paneling that adorned the walls was old, John noticed. Probably original, but it had been poorly cared for. There were gaps appearing between the panels due to shrinkage and warping. The carpet was worn as well, although John estimated its age at late 1970’s due to the garish colour and the shag cut.

Simpson sat down behind the desk and motioned to the two armchairs on the other side. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Now, what’s this about Robert?”

John sat down, but Sherlock stayed standing, hands clasped behind his back, perusing the spines of the books on the shelves. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, John realized that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything, so he cleared his throat and started. “We’re, ah, we’re consultants with the police force in London, and… and we understand that Robert Cavanaugh was living here at the time, or shortly before, the, ah, the alleged offence….”

“Yes.” Simpson looked suitably distressed. “Terrible thing, that. A complete shock. Robbie… well, he certainly wasn’t normal, but we didn’t expect anything like… that.”

“How long had he been living here?” John asked.

“About eight months – no, maybe closer to a year. He’d been living on the streets in London and got picked up for solicitation and being drunk and disorderly. After he’d spent a few days drying out in a jail cell, he opted to come out here if the police agreed not to press charges.” Simpson’s expression became solemn. “At the time I just believed that he needed some clean living and a supportive environment. I didn’t realize how disturbed he really was, that all those substances he had been using were hiding something worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“At first everything was fine,” Simpson explained. “Robbie was happy to be here, got along well with the other kids. But then he started to tell them strange things. Said he knew how to do witchcraft, said he could summon demons. He read all sorts of books about it, stayed up in his room for hours, talking to himself. When he did come downstairs, he was very distrustful of me – told the other kids he thought I was trying to trick him or hurt him.” He sighed. “It became clear to me that Robbie was mentally ill – schizophrenia, most likely. Paranoid and grandiose delusions. We tried to get him some help, but he became afraid of us and ran away. A few days later we heard about poor Miss Parrish on the news.”

“Did you call the police?” This from Sherlock, who had turned away from the bookcase and was looking at Simpson intently.

“I’m sorry?”

“When you realised he had run away. Did you call the police?”

Simpson’s expression grew sorrowful. “No. I was hoping he’d return on his own. I had some informal feelers out in London; contacts of mine in the mental health community. I was afraid if we got the police involved it would lead to something worse.”

“Worse than being charged with murder?”

“At the time, I didn’t know that was going to happen.” Simpson’s tone had grown sharper, John noticed. “I’m sorry, _who_ did you say you’re working with?”

“We’re with the police,” John broke in, trying to defuse the confrontation he could see looming between Simpson and Sherlock. “We’re investigating a murder.”

“I’ve already spoken with the police about Miss Parrish’s death. I don’t have anything—”

“She’s not the victim,” Sherlock interrupted. “Harry Williamson is.”

“Harry Williamson? Robert’s barrister?”

“Well, not any more….”

“Sherlock,” John muttered disapprovingly under his breath.

“This… this is bizarre,” Simpson was saying, having apparently not heard Sherlock’s comment. “Harry’s been murdered? I… I can’t believe it.”

“According to John Holden, you were sending both he and Williamson threatening texts.” Sherlock, undaunted, had gone back on the attack.

“What?” Simpson looked incredulous. “That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I do that? I contacted them quite a bit, yes – both of them – but only because I’m concerned about Robbie.”

“So… you never sent them any texts with strange figures?” John asked.

“What? No,” Simpson said, shaking his head. “I mean, yes, I sent them texts, but just asking about what was going on with Robert’s case. No runes involved.”

“Could we see Robert’s room?” Sherlock asked abruptly, suddenly affable again.

Simpson paused, and for a moment John thought he saw anger flash in his eyes. “Of course,” he said, tightly. “But there’s something I need to attend to right now. I’ll get someone to take you upstairs.”

He left the room, closing the door behind him. John moved over to Sherlock. “What do you think is going on here?” he asked, voice pitched low.

“I think we’re being lied to, John,” Sherlock replied, glee lighting his features.

The door opened and the young girl who had met them on the front porch came in. She was smiling, but John thought he could see something cold and unfriendly in her eyes. “Charles says I’m to take you to Robbie’s room,” she said. “Follow me.”

She led them across the hall and up a majestic double sweep staircase. Just before she reached the top step, however, she stopped dead and her eyes closed. “Oh,” she gasped faintly, then swayed backwards and collapsed.

Sherlock was directly behind her, and he managed to catch her, stumbling a bit and flashing a panicked glance at John. “Over there,” John directed, pointing at a bench on the landing. Sherlock lifted her up, with a bit of effort, and John noticed with concern that her head was lolling against his shoulder, her hands lax against his chest. He also noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the profound look of discomfort on his flatmate’s face as he deposited the girl on the bench and backed away.

But then his training took over and he pushed all the unnecessary thoughts out of his head as he knelt at the girl’s side. Her pulse was strong and steady, her skin warm and dry. No fever, at least as far as he could tell with the back of his hand. Breathing was regular, and he couldn’t detect any gross signs of arrhythmia. The beds of her nails were pink. So… no apparent heart trouble, no difficulty breathing, no obvious lack of oxygen. She looked as though she were asleep.

He glanced behind him but the hall was empty. In fact, the house was eerily quiet. “Sherlock,” he hissed at his friend, who was pacing nervously up and down the landing, “see if one of these doors leads to a bathroom and find me a glass of water.”

Before Sherlock could obey, however, the girl stirred. Sighing, she put a hand to her forehead, then opened her eyes, blinking several times. She turned her head and saw John, then levered herself into a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked.

“You had a bit of a faint,” he said, smiling at her reassuringly. “Has that ever happened to you before?”

“Oh, yeah,” the girl replied, her eyes downcast, red blooming faintly across her cheeks. “It’s a blood sugar thing, I think. Sorry to freak you out.”

“Well, I couldn’t find anything wrong, but you really should get a thorough check-up from your regular doctor, especially if it’s happened before.” An impatient throat-clearing noise came from behind him, and he suppressed the impulse to turn and glare at Sherlock. “Sit here for a bit, then maybe go get something to eat. We’ll be fine on our own. Just tell us how to find Robbie’s room.”

“Go up the staircase at the back,” she said, pointing down a hall to his left, “and it’s the third door on the right. And… thank you.” She shot him a shy smile, and John decided he must have misread her unfriendliness earlier.

He stood up, patted her on the arm and motioned to Sherlock with a jerk of his head. “Come on.”

“Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?” Sherlock said, with an edge to his voice, as they headed down the hallway.

“Piss off,” John replied amiably as he climbed the narrow, steep stairs. Third one on the right… he turned the knob and opened the door.

The room was small, with a low ceiling. “Used to be servant’s quarters,” Sherlock murmured, pushing in past him. There was a narrow bed, neatly made; a small bureau with three drawers; a wardrobe; and a desk and chair. Books lined a shelf above the desk, which held a laptop computer and several open Coke cans. A few pictures sat on the bureau, amid bits and bobs for grooming and a pile of loose change.

Sherlock walked over and began examining the books above the desk. John watched him for a while, then turned and went over to the bureau to look at the pictures. They all had a smiling, blond-haired boy in them; in two he was joined by a girl, probably a few years younger, and in a third one the two children were with an older woman. The resemblance was strong between all three of them, and John surmised that the younger girl was Robert’s sister and the woman his mother. He wondered how old the pictures were, and what had happened to break up this happy family tableau.

He opened the bureau drawers. Socks and underwear in one, a messy pile of t-shirts in another, all emblazoned with various football logos. There were two pairs of worn jeans in the third, along with a pair of track suit bottoms. Next to the bureau was the wardrobe. A few shirts hung inside, neatly pressed, plus a pair of trousers and two hoodies, one grey, one navy. There was a nice pair of shoes and a ratty pair of trainers lined up together on the floor in front of the wardrobe, and there was a battered football and a cricket bat leaning against the side.

John closed the door, feeling vaguely bothered, but unable to put his finger on why. “What do you think?” Sherlock said in his ear, startling him.

“Seems like a normal teenage boy’s room,” John replied.

Sherlock looked disappointed. “As usual, John, you see but you do not observe.”

“So it’s not a normal teenage boy’s room?”

“No, it is.”

“Then… what’s the problem?”

“The problem, John, is that Robert Cavanaugh has been described to us as anything but a normal teenage boy.”

“So this is a lie.”

“Rooms don’t lie. People do.”

John frowned. “Why would they lie? You said someone was lying earlier. Why would they do that?”

“Why, indeed?” Sherlock mused, brows drawn in concentration. He glanced out the window, and John realized that it was getting dark. “It’s time we got back to London.”

As they came out on to the landing, John was surprised to see Simpson standing in the hall by the door. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you a taxi,” he said, smiling, as they came down the stairs. The tension was gone from his face, now, replaced with an easy smugness.

“My thanks,” Sherlock said breezily as he opened the front door and headed out, John behind him. “We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes?” Simpson said, just as John passed him. “I think you might want this.”

John turned. Simpson was holding Sherlock’s phone out.

“My phone.” Sherlock sounded surprised, and John looked over to see him reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Yes. You must have dropped it.” Simpson’s smile had turned almost predatory.

“Must have.” Sherlock’s expression was blank as he took the phone. Glancing briefly at it, he slipped it back into his pocket. “Thanks, again. Come on, John.”

While they were in the taxi John managed to restrain his curiosity – small village; tongues were bound to wag – but once they were seated on the train, he couldn’t stop himself. “You didn’t drop your phone,” he said to Sherlock.

“No,” Sherlock said quietly. “That girl – she must have picked my pocket.”

He tried to think about when that could have happened, and then remembered. “The faint was a feint,” he realised.

Sherlock gave him a trenchant glare at the pun, although a corner of his mouth crooked up, almost unwillingly. “Yes. But she must have been very skilled for me not to notice.”

“But why steal your phone?”

“I’ve no idea. It doesn’t look damaged or altered – they must have wanted something off of it, but I can’t think what.” Sherlock took his phone out and examined it closely, frowning. “There’s a message.” He tapped the button for speakerphone and then the button for play.

The automated date and time stamp indicated that the message had been left while they’d been examining Cavanaugh’s room. Then Holden’s voice issued from the phone, breathy and panicked. “You… you were right, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know how, but… he’s after me. _It’s_ after me.” A pause. “I… I can’t… I’ve got to get out of here.” Then there was panting, and the sounds of footsteps, fast, on pavement, then crunching on gravel. “Oh, my God, no!” Holden screamed, his voice sharp with terror. “It’s in the trees! It’s coming!” There was a hideous crunching sound, and the message ended.

John felt the back of his neck prickle as a shiver worked its way down his spine. “What the hell was _that_ about?” he asked.

Sherlock’s mouth was drawn into a tense line as he punched up a number and held the phone to his ear. “Damn it,” he hissed, “straight to voicemail. Lestrade,” he snapped, “you should fire whatever idiot you put on Holden, because something’s happened. Get over there now. And see if there’s a park nearby.”

As he shut the phone off the train lurched, then gradually slowed until it came to a stop. “No, no, no, no, _no_ ,” Sherlock groaned, jumping up from his seat and crossing the aisle, peering out the windows on the other side.

John glanced out his window, but night had fallen, and it was difficult to make anything out clearly besides the embankment that ran alongside the tracks and the dark clumps of the treetops, swaying in the wind.

 _Bloody rail signals_ , John thought. He looked over at Sherlock, who was still standing in the aisle. “You might as well sit; it’s going to be a while.”

“This is intolerable,” Sherlock ground out between clenched teeth. “We _need_ to get back to London. The case depends on it.”

“Well, it’s either wait or walk.” Sherlock eyed the door to the carriage speculatively, and John shook his head in disbelief. “Sherlock, you can’t be serious. It’ll take us far longer to walk than if we just wait it out.”

Sherlock’s phone pinged and he glanced at it, his eyes flicking up and down the screen.

“Was that Lestrade?”

“No.” Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and started pacing up and down the aisle.

“Well, then, who was it?”

“No one important.” He hunched his shoulders, pulling his coat closer around him. “Why is it always so bloody cold in these carriages?”

John frowned. “Are you cold? I think it’s rather stuffy in here, myself.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but simply kept pacing. John sighed and opened up the netbook to see if he could get any news about what was holding up the train.

About forty minutes later, Sherlock’s phone shrilled. “It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock said, checking the display. He sat down next to John and thumbed the speaker on. “Hello?”

“I got your message.” Lestrade’s voice sounded tinny and far away.

“And?”

There was a long pause, then a weary exhale. “Holden’s dead.”

John felt sick. He looked over at Sherlock, whose expression was grim. “How?” he asked.

Another pause. “Same as Williamson,” Lestrade admitted. “Except this time he was in a park a couple of streets from his flat.” He gave Sherlock the address. “I’m trying to keep things low-key, but if the newspapers get a hold of this…”

As if on cue, the train lurched forward, then started to pick up speed.

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” John said. He turned as his friend slid his phone back in his pocket. “Sherlock, what—”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, brusquely. “I need quiet. I need to think.” He closed his eyes and slumped down in his chair, folding his hands under his chin like a man at prayer.

John exhaled, annoyed, but held his peace, and watched impatiently out the window as they headed towards the glowing lights of London.

***

They caught a taxi outside the station and headed for the address Lestrade had given them. When they arrived, Sherlock flung a note at the driver and was striding into the park before John had even exited. He hurried after him, feeling a cold chill down his back as the sound of his feet on the gravel reminded him of Holden’s call.

“Over here!” He heard Lestrade’s voice off to the left, and veered to meet it, finding him and a few other officers at one end of a small clearing ringed by trees. Sherlock was already there, torch out, playing the light over the bloodied and mutilated lump of flesh lying in the middle of the path. He flung up a hand as John approached, palm out in an imperious command. “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

“What is it?”

“It’s what _isn’t_ that’s what’s interesting,” Sherlock murmured, walking slowly in a large circle around the body, eyes fixed on the ground.

Lestrade gave him a look that clearly said, _What is he on about?_ , but John could only shrug. Sherlock had finished his circuit and was standing very still, looking off into the dark treetops. He shook his head in a short, sharp motion, as if he was coming out of a reverie, then motioned John forwards. “Have a look, then. Be careful.”

John stepped up to the body, avoiding the pools of coagulating blood, and crouched down. The face was Holden’s, although it was frozen in an almost unrecognizable rictus of terror. The body… John swallowed. Even with the carnage he’d seen in Afghanistan, the sight threatened to turn his stomach.

He took a deep breath and went through a cursory examination. “Dead about an hour or two – probably right after he called us,” he said, rising and backing away from the body. “Same wounds as Williamson’s, looks like.”

“He called you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, irritably. His back was to them, his eyes scanning the treetops. “How else would we know to call you?”

“So what’s interesting?” Lestrade asked.

No answer. Sherlock appeared preoccupied with something beyond them in the darkness.

“Sherlock?” John said, walking over and touching his friend gently on the arm.

Sherlock flinched away from his hand, then spun around and stared at them both. “What?” His eyes looked a little wild, and John could see beads of sweat at his hairline. He frowned. He hadn’t seen Sherlock this discomposed since the showdown with Moriarty at the pool.

“What’s interesting? You said there was something interesting,” Lestrade repeated patiently.

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock drew his gloved hand over his face and took a deep breath. “There aren’t any prints.”

“Prints?” echoed Lestrade.

“Yes, prints. Human or animal. There aren’t any. So how did he get here? And yet… we heard his steps….” Sherlock was following the path back towards the trees, eyes on the ground.

“In the phone call,” John clarified for Lestrade, who was looking mystified.

“…here!” Sherlock shouted, triumphantly. John hurried over to where Sherlock was standing, illuminating the gravel path with his torch. “Holden’s footprints. But they end here.”

Something gleamed, bright in the torchlight, and John reached down and picked it up. It was a phone, scuffed and dirty, but otherwise undamaged. “Holden’s phone,” he said, recognizing it. He handed it over to Lestrade, who had come up behind them.

“So….” Lestrade’s expression was pure confusion. “Holden is talking to you and walking—”

“Running,” Sherlock clarified.

“…running on the path. Then he stops here, drops his mobile, and…” He looked over to where the body lay, several yards distant. “…ends up there, dead. How?”

“Maybe he was dragged by whatever animal did this?” John suggested.

“No,” Sherlock said swiftly, “no drag marks. No animal tracks at all, for that matter.”

“No animal tracks?” He was deeply confused. “But the injuries, they’re the same as on Williamson….”

“Claw marks, yes.”

“Then how could there be no… wait, was it _flying_ or something?”

“Flying?” This was Lestrade, chiming in. “Bloody hell, are we talking about some kind of massive predatory bird or something?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Sherlock shouted. He whirled and stalked away from them, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.

John licked his lips nervously. It was unusual for Sherlock to be this visibly frustrated. “Okay, look, let’s everyone just take a deep breath and think a moment,” he said. He turned to Lestrade. “You’ve talked to Williamson’s co-workers; anyone report getting any unusual texts?”

“Unusual texts?” Lestrade was looking at him as though he’d lost his mind. “No.”

“Good. Okay.” So no one was in immediate danger, as far as they knew. That gave them time. “I’ll go with the body to the morgue and see—”

“No.” This was from Sherlock, who had come back to join them, his mouth set in a grim line. “I need you to go down to the Yard and check Williamson’s phone.”

“You’ve already seen his phone,” Lestrade said.

“Well, I need to see it again!” Sherlock snapped. He turned to John and gripped the open front of his coat, locking his eyes with John’s. “I need to know if he got a text like Holden’s. And if he tried to do something with it; delete it, forward it, whatever. Do you understand? This is of vital importance, John.”

Sherlock’s gaze was a bit unnerving. Not that he wasn’t usually intense when he was on a case, but… there was something _different_ about this. “Okay, yeah, got it. Where are you going to be?”

“There’s something I’ve got to check out. I’ll meet you back at Baker Street.” He let go of John’s coat and strode towards the main road.

John watched him go, feeling distinctly uneasy. He glanced over at Lestrade, who was giving him a wry grin. “I’d have thought you’d have got used to him walking off in the middle of things by now,” Lestrade said.

“No, not really,” he replied absently, looking back at the path Sherlock had headed down. Every instinct he possessed was telling him that something was wrong.

“Come on,” Lestrade said, “I’ve got to let the scene of crimes officer bag up the evidence, and then we’ll get a ride back to the station.”

***

“So what’s this about some texts?” Lestrade asked, taking the top off the evidence box. He reached inside and rooted around a bit, then pulled out a phone in an evidence bag. After opening the bag, he handed the phone to John.

“Holden showed us a text he got recently – said Williamson had got one, too.” He pressed the power button and waited for the phone to boot up. “He thought it was related to this case they were working on – Katie Parrish. Williamson is… erm, was, the lawyer for the accused.”

Lestrade nodded. “I know that case. So how was Holden involved?”

He shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure – sounds like Williamson thought Cavanaugh was being brainwashed or something; had asked Holden to consult. But Holden never got the kid to talk to him.” The phone chimed and he paged through the options until he reached ‘text messages’.

“What did the text say?”

“Well, that’s the odd thing,” he said, scrolling through the list of texts received. “It was just two rows of these weird figures, with a header: ‘In memoriam, John Holden, allowed 24 hours’. Didn’t make any sense – ah, this is probably it.”

But when he tried to select it, he got the message ‘text not found’.

He frowned, and Lestrade came around to look over his shoulder. “What is it?” Lestrade asked.

“I can’t get this text to come up. According to the list, it’s been received, but when I try to pull it up, I get an error message.” He tried it again, and got the same result.

“Could someone have deleted it?”

John clicked over to ‘deleted messages’ and scrolled down the list. “No, no record of that,” he said. Then he remembered Sherlock’s demand and checked the ‘messages sent’ list. Empty. “Can we get Holden’s phone?” he asked Lestrade. “I can show you on that.”

“I’ll call down – it should have been booked into evidence by now.”

But Holden’s phone, once they got it, produced the same result: text not found. “I don’t understand,” John said, frustrated. “I saw it. Holden showed it to me, less than twelve hours ago.” He paged through the various menu options. “It’s like it just disappeared off the damn thing.”

“You said there were weird figures – what did they look like?”

He exhaled, irritably, and turned Holden’s phone off. Taking a pad and biro from Lestrade’s desk, he drew a series of short, interconnected lines. “I can’t remember exactly, but something like this.”

“Celtic runes.”

John raised an eyebrow at him, surprised.

“I took an A-level in archaeology,” Lestrade said, a sheepish smile on his face. “Went on a field trip to Stonehenge. There are figures like this carved in the stones there.”

“What do they mean?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Don’t know. No one’s quite sure. Names of gods, maybe; appeals to forces such as fate, justice, luck.”

Or death? John pursed his lips, thinking. But what would be the point of sending someone a death threat in a language they didn’t understand?

“So who sent these texts?”

“Well, Holden said that Simpson, Cavanaugh’s guardian, had sent them. But Simpson denies it.”

Lestrade eyed him grimly. “I’ll tell you the same I told Sherlock. You can’t withhold evidence from us.”

“I’m not, I swear,” John protested. “I’d show you the texts if I could find them. And anyway, even if Simpson did send the texts, that doesn’t mean he’s the murderer. In fact, he’s got an airtight alibi – Sherlock and I were at his house, with him, when Holden called us.”

“All right. It’s just… I expect _you_ to have some common sense, even if _he_ doesn’t.”

John nodded. “Speaking of, I’d better get back…”

“I’ll find someone to give you a lift.”

“Thanks.”

***

The flat was cold and dark when John got home, though, with no sign that Sherlock had been there before him. He turned up the heat, turned on the gas in the fireplace for good measure, then made himself a cuppa and sat down to wait.

Two and a half hours later he’d had all the crap telly he could stand, and there was still no sign of Sherlock. Feeling slightly annoyed, which he knew was just a cover for his underlying anxiety, he pulled out his phone.

 _All right?_ he texted.

He rinsed out his mug and put it in the draining board, then heard his phone make the ‘text received’ chime.

 _Fine. Busy. Don’t wait up._

 _SH_

Annoyance morphed into full-blown anger. _I thought we’d agreed you weren’t going to do this sort of thing any more_ , he texted back.

No answer.

John waited for forty-five minutes, but when there was still no response from Sherlock, he turned off the gas fire and went to bed, muttering curses at his flatmate under his breath. But it was hours before he fell asleep, and even then he tossed and turned, his dreams shot through with images of a Semtex-laden vest and the sound of water lapping softly in a darkened room.

It was late morning when he rose, not feeling particularly rested despite the hour. As he stumbled blearily down the stairs and into the kitchen, he was relieved to see that Sherlock was sitting at the desk, deeply engrossed in reading something on the laptop. He didn’t think he could face Sherlock before he had some tea, though, so he took a detour into the kitchen.

“Productive night?” he asked, as he walked into the lounge, mug in hand. He noticed that Sherlock was still wearing the clothes he’d been in the night before.

“More productive than yours, I’d imagine,” Sherlock responded, tapping away on the keyboard. “Let me guess – you couldn’t find the text on either phone.”

John resisted the urge to hurl the mug at him, as that would have been a terrible waste of tea. He slumped into his armchair instead. “So you sent me on a wild goose chase?”

“Didn’t know it was at the time,” Sherlock said, still typing.

He remembered his conversation with Lestrade last night. “Well, I found out something else. Those figures we saw in Holden’s text—”

“Yes, I know, Celtic runes. You didn’t notice that Simpson already knew what they were?”

John closed his mouth firmly and slowly counted to ten. “No,” he said shortly, “I didn’t.”

“Ah.” But Sherlock was shaking his head slightly, with that smug look on his face that said, _Everyone around me is an idiot_.

It was too early in the day to be this annoyed, John thought. “What did _you_ do last night, then?” he asked, hoping that the answer was something disappointing.

Sherlock closed the laptop and faced John. “I went back to Lufford Hall.”

“Lufford Hall? Why? Or, wait, more importantly, how?”

“Borrowed a car from Mycroft.”

“You can drive?”

Sherlock waved a hand at him imperiously. “Had to learn once for a case; haven’t got round to deleting it yet. But that’s not important. What I found out is.” He gave John one of those smug, satisfied grins. “Charles Simpson is our murderer.”

He frowned at his friend, bewildered. “What? How? Sherlock, he was miles from London last night.”

“Nevertheless, he’s our man. He sent the texts to Williamson and Holden; he found a way to make the murders occur.”

“Found a way? As in hired someone?” He took a drink of tea, but for once it didn’t help to clear his thoughts. “How do you hire someone to commit a murder with a giant animal?”

It took him a moment to read Sherlock’s expression – the best description he could think of for it was apprehensive, an emotion John could not remember ever having seen before on Sherlock’s face. He took a breath, avoiding John’s gaze, and looked as though he was about to say something very dodgy when his phone rang.

The relief that crossed Sherlock’s features was also unfamiliar, and brief, and John wondered if he had imagined it. “Yes?” he answered the phone curtly, holding up a finger to silence John. He listened for a few moments, then said, “We’ll be there,” and hung up.

“What was that all about?” John asked.

“We’ve got an appointment at Pentonville Prison in two hours,” Sherlock informed him, getting up and crossing to the door. “I’m going down to Bart’s; you might want to get cleaned up, once you’ve finished your tea.” He pulled his coat on, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

“An appointment? To do what?”

Sherlock’s voice floated back as he headed down the stairs. “To talk to Robert Cavanaugh.”

***

Lestrade was waiting for them outside the prison gate, doubt plain on his face. “He won’t talk to you,” he said to Sherlock as the two of them got out of the taxi and walked towards the entrance. “He’s been refusing visitors, letters, phone calls – any contact with the outside world – for over two weeks.”

“Did you make the request exactly as I asked?”

“Of course.”

“You told him that Williamson and Holden were murdered? And how?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then he’ll see us.” Sherlock stalked towards the gate, coat flaring.

John gave Lestrade a commiserating look and fell in beside the DI as they followed in Sherlock’s wake. “So what are we doing here?” Lestrade asked.

“No idea,” John said, shrugging.

Sherlock shot them both a withering glare as he signed in at the guard post. “Do neither of you listen to me at all? We are gathering data. Data is crucial. Without it, all the theories and assumptions in the world are just so much dross.”

Once they had signed in, Lestrade showed them in to a small, windowless room. Two plastic chairs sat in front of a long metal ledge that divided the room; above the ledge was a clear partition with a round metal grille set in. On the other side of the partition were two more chairs, with a door at the back leading out. “If he agrees, the guards will bring him up in a few minutes,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and scarf and sprawled elegantly in one of the plastic chairs. John remained standing, crossing his arms and regarding his partner thoughtfully. “So why are we here, again?” he asked.

“I need some information from Robert Cavanaugh.”

“Information about what?”

Sherlock gave him an oblique glance, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You saw the boy’s room. You commented on how normal it appeared.”

“And?” Sherlock was a certified genius, John knew, but there were days when the man drove him mad.

“So where were the books on witchcraft? Where were the pictures, the ruminative doodlings of ritual symbols and graphics? Where was the dark, depressive music? Simpson told us that Cavanaugh was obsessed with this sort of thing. Why was there no evidence of it in his room?”

John frowned. Sherlock’s knack for deducing from the absence of things continued to confound him. “Okay, so, he wasn’t obsessed. Why would Simpson tell us that?”

But before Sherlock could answer, the door on the other side of the partition opened, and a tall, weedy young man came in, flanked by two uniformed guards. John recognized the shock of blond hair, but there was no question that this person had several years – both in age and in wear – on the smiling boy John had seen in the pictures in Cavanaugh’s room.

Cavanaugh sat down slowly, his expression wary. “I got your message,” he said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, “and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. I believe you have some information that could be useful to us.”

“I already made a statement about the murder charges. I haven’t got anything more to say about that.”

“That’s not what I’m interested in. I know why you killed Katie Parrish and whose orders you were acting under at the time. I also know why you wouldn’t talk to Dr. Holden, and why you’ve cut yourself off from everyone, including your own barrister, for the past two weeks.” Sherlock drew his phone out of his inside jacket pocket and tapped it a few times. “What I’m interested in knowing more about is _this_.” He turned it so the display faced Cavanaugh.

Cavanaugh’s response was electric. His face went pale, and his eyes widened in fear. His gaze met Sherlock’s. “You’re a dead man,” he whispered.

John’s heart lurched oddly against his ribs and he took a few quick steps forward. His fears were realised; he could clearly see the now-familiar text over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sender blocked, two lines of runes, _In memoriam, Sherlock Holmes, granted 24 hours._. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he hissed, “when—”

“Hush.” Sherlock raised a hand to quiet him, his gaze still fixed on Cavanaugh. “How do I stop it?” he asked the boy.

“You… you c-can’t,” Cavanaugh stuttered. John could see that his pupils were dilated and there were beads of sweat at his hairline.

“There must be a way.”

Cavanaugh shook his head.

“There must,” Sherlock insisted. “You’re alive.”

Swallowing convulsively, Cavanaugh spoke hesitantly. “T-turn it back on the one that sent it.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “But that didn’t work for you….” He murmured, then inhaled sharply. “Oh. Oh, of course. Number blocked. Clever bastard.” He leaned towards Cavanaugh. “What did you do, then?”

Cavanaugh was visibly trembling, his hands clenching the narrow metal ledge. Sweat trickled down from his temple. He wiped his hand over his face, shakily.

“Sherlock,” John said, “maybe we should call someone.” The boy looked ill; he was beginning to worry about him.

It was as if he hadn’t even spoken. “What did you do?” Sherlock demanded of Cavanaugh, a hard edge to his voice. “Tell me.”

“I… I….” He raised pleading eyes to John and Sherlock. “You… you have to pass it to someone else, send the text to someone else. Before the time is up. Then it’ll come for them, not you.” He swallowed, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. He’d grown even paler, John thought, if such a thing was possible. “I sent it to my mate. I sent him the text. We were in the back garden. It was dark, and then… then it came. It came and it tore him apart.”

Cavanaugh’s eyes were wide open, but his gaze was blank and unseeing. John knew that look. He’d seen it on soldiers’ faces as they relived their memories of death and destruction – hell, _he’d_ probably worn that look from time to time. “It’s all right,” he said, stepping forward, trying to make his voice calm and soothing.

Cavanaugh lurched to his feet, still staring at nothing, and let out a scream of pure, visceral terror that froze John in his tracks and rose the hair on the back of his neck. Then Cavanaugh lunged forward, slamming his own forehead into the partition.

All hell broke loose. A klaxon starting going off, and the guards leaped forward to restrain Cavanaugh. He fought them wildly and managed to smash his head into the barrier twice more before they subdued him and bustled him out. John saw that the clear material was smeared with red and felt sick.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock was standing by the door, coat and scarf on, waiting.

“But…” He felt slow and stupid with shock, as if he were lagging ten minutes behind everyone else. “Shouldn’t we?....”

“He’s being taken care of,” Sherlock said, quietly. He took John’s upper arm in a gentle grip and tugged him towards the door. “We need to go.”

It took him the taxi ride back to Baker Street to shake off his stupor and gather his wits. He followed Sherlock into their flat, slamming the door behind him. “What the _hell_ is going on, Sherlock?” he snapped, irritation replacing shock.

“Isn’t it obvious? Charles Simpson sent Robert Cavanaugh to murder Katie Parrish. Afterwards, Cavanaugh started to think better of his actions, and Simpson tried to have him killed. That failed, as you heard, and then Cavanaugh was arrested. Simpson put out the story that Cavanaugh was insane, but when it looked like Williamson wasn’t going to fall for that, Simpson had to do something to shut him up, as well as the psychologist he’d brought in on the case.”

“So the texts _were_ from Simpson.”

“Yes. It’s how he targets his victims.”

“Which reminds me,” he said, reaching into Sherlock’s jacket pocket and pulling out his phone, then brandishing it in his face, “when were you going to tell me about this?”

Sherlock had the grace to look slightly abashed. “There really hasn’t been time, John….”

“When did you receive it?”

“On our way back from Lufford Hall.”

“On our–” Then he remembered Sherlock getting the text when the train was stopped; his strange behavior afterwards. “Christ, Sherlock!” he exclaimed, feeling his heart clench with worry. “We’ve only got a few hours left!”

“Your penchant for stating the obvious is remarkable, as always,” Sherlock said dryly, “but I confess that I am at a bit of a loss—”

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Both John and Sherlock looked at it in surprise, and then John handed it over to Sherlock, who thumbed the speakerphone on. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“Mr. Holmes?” It was a girl’s voice.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes?”

“This is Joanna Farrier. I met you last night at Lufford Hall.”

“Yes?” This was said with a bit more enthusiasm and an eyebrow raised in John’s direction.

“I… I pinched your phone. I’m sorry – Charles told me to do it.”

The impatient look was back on Sherlock’s face. “I am aware of this, Miss Farrier. Your apology is accepted. Was there anything else?”

“Wait, yes! Charles… he’s… he’s going to leave. He’s skipping town and he’s going to leave all of us to take the blame for what happened. You have to stop him.”

John shot a startled glance at Sherlock. “Do you know where he is now, Miss Farrier?”

“Yes, he’s heading for the 8:39 to Southampton.”

“Thank you, Miss Farrier,” Sherlock said briskly, “we’ll take care of it.” He ended the call and smiled at John. “I think our next move is clear, don’t you?”

“Just a second,” he replied. He went over to the desk drawer, unlocked it and pulled out his SIG Sauer. He ejected the clip and checked it to make sure it was full, then slotted it back in and pushed the gun into his jeans at the small of his back. “All right, let’s go.”

***

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” John said as they rode towards Waterloo Station. “Why did Simpson want Cavanaugh to kill Katie Parrish?”

“Blood.”

John stared at him in horror, a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What? Dear God, why?”

“They’re cultists, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on his mobile. “Demon worshippers. They need virgin’s blood for some of their more esoteric rituals.”

“How… how did you know that?”

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and raised his eyes towards the ceiling of the taxi. “In Simpson’s library, his shelves were filled with books about witchcraft, the occult, devil worship, that sort of thing. Some very old and very rare editions, as well. Clearly he was a connoisseur. And yet he tried to make us think that Cavanaugh was the one who was obsessed. But Cavanaugh didn’t have a single book or CD or picture or anything that would support that. That was my first clue that something was wrong.”

The taxi pulled up at Waterloo, and Sherlock paid the fare and followed John out. “When I went back that night,” he continued, “I was able to confirm that some of those books were actual grimoires, containing practical exercises and spells. In addition, I discovered their cache of supplies. So, not just a historical interest, then.”

“Wait – are you saying that Simpson and those kids were actually practising witchcraft?”

“Exactly. Now, look, John, we don’t have much time. I need you to go purchase our tickets – you blend in much better than I do; Simpson probably won’t recognize you if he’s in the crowd here somewhere. I’ll be sitting over here at this cafe, you come and join me when you’ve got the tickets.”

Whatever further questions John had had died on his lips as he hurried off to obey Sherlock’s orders. Once he’d bought the tickets and returned to the cafe, Sherlock led him on a labyrinthine route through several service access areas to get to where the train was boarding. Then he slipped into the last carriage and motioned John to sit at the very back.

“Why are we back here?” John whispered.

“Simpson will be trying to avoid attention,” Sherlock said, his lips close to John’s ear, his voice barely audible. “He won’t want to sit in the last carriage, that will look too suspicious. This will enable us to avoid him and then search methodically through the remainder of the train once we get started.”

John nodded and settled back to wait, trying to not look at his watch and calculate how much time was left before the proclaimed end of Sherlock’s “allowed” hours. The image of Holden’s mangled body floated up, unbidden, and his heart clenched to think of Sherlock ending up like that. He shifted restlessly on the hard plastic seat and felt his gun shift against the small of his back, reassuringly solid and heavy. A fierce determination rose inside him. He was not going to let anything happen to his friend, no matter what.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by Sherlock’s hand on his arm as the train shuddered to life and slowly eased out of the station. After a few minutes, Sherlock pulled him up, and the two of them started making their way slowly through the carriages, looking for Simpson.

They’d gone through four before they found him, sitting alone towards the front, fortunately in a double row. John felt a grim satisfaction at the look of surprise on Simpson’s face as Sherlock and he slid into the seats opposite him.

“Good evening, Mr. Simpson,” Sherlock said, pulling his gloves off.

“Mr. Holmes,” Simpson said, with a weak smile. “What a surprise to run into you here.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied bluntly. “You know quite well that I have been investigating the deaths of Mr. Williamson and Dr. Holden, and how these relate to your former charge. You must have expected that I would try and stop you from fleeing the country.”

“I… I don’t know what you mean. I merely have some business in Southampton—”

“Dull,” Sherlock sighed and crossed his legs. “I know that you are responsible for those deaths, as well as the attempted murder of Robert Cavanaugh. I must insist that you turn yourself in to the police.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I shall ensure that you do.”

“I doubt that you will be in a position to do that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you?” Sherlock replied in a bored voice, flicking a piece of dust off of his trousers, then turning his head to look out the window. “Well, we shall see.”

John watched Simpson curiously. The man’s words were confident and self-assured, but he appeared anything but. His face was pale, and he was sweating. His hands were twisting restlessly in his lap, and he had checked his watch twice since John and Sherlock had sat down.

The train slowed as it came around a curve, and Simpson abruptly leapt to his feet and pushed past them into the aisle, making for the door. John was up and after him like a shot, but Simpson grabbed a duffel bag from the overhead rack and flung it at John.

“Oof.” The duffel wasn’t that heavy, but it still made him stagger with the unexpected weight, knocking him backwards and into Sherlock, who had been following him.

“John, move!” Sherlock snapped, and he thrust the bag to one side and went through the door after Simpson, who, he could see now, hadn’t gone through to the other car but had actually jumped off the train. He did the same, and heard a heavy thud as Sherlock landed behind him. Glancing back, he realized they had performed their little stunt just in time; the train was starting to speed up as it cleared the curve.

They were in some kind of industrial park on the outskirts of London. A heavy grey fog hung over everything, punctuated by the occasional – very occasional – yellow glare of sodium lights. They must be near the Thames, John realised. He could see Simpson, ahead; vaulting the low fence around the tracks and running off among the buildings.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock shouted, and raced off after Simpson. Due to his longer legs, and the fact that he got over the fence easily while John had to struggle with it a moment, Sherlock quickly drew distance on him, and he had to run flat out just to keep his partner within eye view.

Sherlock turned right, then left, then right again, and then John lost sight of him. He skidded to a halt in an open area between two buildings, breath whistling in his lungs, and tried to listen for the sound of Sherlock’s or Simpson’s footsteps. He heard nothing, though, except the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

“John!” The cry was for help, not of command, but before he could respond Sherlock came flying through the air about thirty feet ahead of him and crashed into the side of one of the buildings, then crumpled to the ground. John heard a dull grunt of pain.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, and started forward, only to stop as he caught movement off to his right, in his peripheral vision. Slowly he drew his gun out of the back of his jeans and flicked the safety off. Odds were this was whomever had just attacked Sherlock – maybe Simpson, although he didn’t seem the type to get his hands dirty. Maybe one or more confederates he’d had waiting for him?

There was a sodium light where Sherlock lay, but the area just beyond was pitch dark. John waited, gripping the SIG tightly. He could hear a faint rhythmic rushing sort of sound, like a bellows operating, but no other suggestions of movement. There was an odor, though – sharp and unpleasant, like rotten eggs. John recognized it as sulphur.

A figure came into view around the far corner of the building, moving ponderously, and John squinted at it in confusion. He didn’t know if it was because of the fog or the dark, but it looked as though it was impossibly tall. And… misshapen, somehow. There were dark protrusions to the side that almost looked like wings, and the way the fog twisted around the figure’s head made it seem as though it had horns.

Sherlock groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position, then fumbled at his jacket pocket. Relief swept through John at the sight, followed quickly by concern as he noticed that Sherlock had his phone out and was operating it one-handed, his left arm tucked in against his torso.

There was a sound – a howl, a roar? – that John felt in his bones more than heard with his ears. The figure advanced towards Sherlock menacingly. Without thinking, John firmed up his stance, then aimed and fired six shots in rapid succession into the cloud of dark and fog.

No effect. Whoever it was, it kept moving inexorably towards Sherlock.

He felt his phone vibrate against his leg. “John!” he heard Sherlock shout, and he glanced over to see his friend gesticulating wildly. Keeping one eye on the figure looming in front of them, he slid his phone out of his coat pocket and turned on the display.

A text message popped up from Sherlock, and he frowned as he saw the lines of runes. Why had Sherlock forwarded Simpson’s text to him?

Cavanaugh’s words echoed in his brain. _You have to pass it to someone else, send the text to someone else. Before the time is up. Then it’ll come for them, not you_.

Another roar vibrated in his sternum, and he looked up to see a pair of eyes, yellow as an old bruise, with thin slivers of black pupil, fixed on him. The creature took a step towards him, and then another, and John felt the hair rise on the back of his neck; felt goosebumps prickle in a wave down his arms. His mouth went dry with fear. He’d been in dangerous situations before, more times than he could count, but this – this was different. This felt like being an insect, helpless, pinned and wriggling on a spike.

His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down. Another text from Sherlock – a phone number, and the command: _TEXT!!!_

And then it hit him. Simpson might have blocked Sherlock’s number, but he hadn’t blocked John’s. Sherlock was trying to get _him_ to forward the text to Simpson.

He engaged the safety on the SIG and shoved it in his pocket, then fumbled through the motions of forwarding, adrenaline making his fingers clumsy. The odor of sulphur was almost overpowering now.

The phone chimed, indicating a successful transmission, and John risked a glance up. The creature was closer, its eyes still on him, but it seemed to be hesitating. John waited, holding his breath, his heart knocking against his ribs like a pinball.

After what seemed like an eternity, the creature turned and went back the way it had come.

John exhaled, lightheaded with relief. He slid his phone back in his pocket and hurried over to where Sherlock had propped himself up against the lamppost. “All right?” he asked as he dropped to his knees next to his friend.

“I think I’ve broken my arm,” Sherlock told him, the faintest edge of a tremor in his voice. John noted his pallor, more pronounced than usual, and the fine lines of pain at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He helped Sherlock ease out of his coat and his suit jacket, and then unbuttoned his cuff and rolled his sleeve back. Sure enough, there was a large lump distending the skin about a third of the way down from his elbow.

“Looks like it,” he agreed, sliding a careful hand over the injury. He pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist. Pulse strong and steady; good, that meant that the break hadn’t damaged any blood vessels. “We’ve got to stabilize this before you start moving. Give me a sec.”

He rose and searched in the rubble around the building until he found two suitable pieces of wood, both short and thin enough to act as splints. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t find anything that would work to secure them. As he came back to Sherlock’s side, however, he had an idea.

“Don’t get excited,” he cautioned, as he unbuckled Sherlock’s belt and pulled it out of its loops.

“Tearing my clothes off in a dark industrial park, John?” Sherlock said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “People will talk.”

John grinned. “People do little else,” he reminded him. He was pleased to see the humour in Sherlock’s expression, although he suspected that was about to change. “Hang on, this might hurt a bit.” He placed the pieces of wood on either side of Sherlock’s injured arm, then looped the belt around a few times to hold them in place, finally passing the tail through the buckle and fastening it tightly.

Sherlock’s face went from pale to gray and John could see his jaw muscles working as he clenched his mouth shut. He gripped Sherlock’s shoulder reassuringly. “Deep breaths,” he instructed. Sherlock nodded tightly and did as bid. After a few moments a slight amount of colour returned to his cheeks.

“Good man.” He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder again, and pulled his phone out to call Lestrade. “Where exactly do you think we are, anyway?” he asked.

Before Sherlock could answer, though, a terrified scream came from behind them, back deep in the maze of buildings. It rose, quavering, before changing to a hideous gurgling cry that was abruptly cut off.

John locked gazes with Sherlock and saw his uneasiness mirrored in the other man’s eyes. “Perhaps we should get out on the main road,” Sherlock said. “It will be easier to tell Lestrade where we are.”

 _And get us farther away from whatever that is_ , John thought. “Agreed,” he said aloud. He tugged Sherlock’s scarf off and quickly fashioned a makeshift sling that held Sherlock’s injured arm in tight to his body. Then he helped his friend to his feet. Sherlock leaned on him heavily, his good arm resting across John’s shoulders. John slid an arm around his waist to steady him, and together the two of them made their way out of the park.

***

“It looks like Robert Cavanaugh is going to make a full recovery.”

“That’s good to hear,” John replied. He picked up the plate of eggs and toast and a mug of tea and carried them out to where Sherlock was sitting at the partners’ desk, reading the newspaper.

“He’ll still have to go to jail, of course—” Sherlock broke off and glared at him as he put the plate and mug down.

“Don’t give me that look,” John said. “Your bones need energy to knit, so you’re going to eat.” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John forestalled him. “Unless you want to be in that cast for more than six weeks…?” Sherlock closed his mouth, but gave John a mutinous gaze. John just grinned at him and went back into the kitchen for his own breakfast.

“Won’t the testimony of the other kids in the house help him?” he asked, as he sat down across from Sherlock and started eating.

“Probably,” Sherlock said, having turned back to reading, “but they can’t erase the actual facts. He did kill the Parrish girl. Under duress, brainwashing, whatever – I guess they could try for an insanity defense, but that’s difficult under the best of circumstances….” He stabbed blindly at the plate with his fork and then brought it to his mouth, eyes on his paper throughout.

John sighed. At least Sherlock was managing to eat something, despite his lack of attention. He looked at Sherlock’s paper and read the headline upside down. _Man killed in fall from train_. “So they’re still saying Simpson’s death was an accident, then?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” Sherlock said, chewing. “According to this, he somehow managed to simultaneously get mangled underneath the train while being thrown a good distance from the tracks.” He reached out with his right hand, still not looking, and John slid his mug over until it connected.

They ate in silence for a while, Sherlock reading, and John looking out the window as the afternoon shadows lengthened across Baker Street. At this time they really should have been eating lunch, but after spending all night in A&E getting Sherlock’s arm seen to, they’d both come home and slept for several hours – Sherlock assisted by the painkillers they’d given him at hospital. So although it was past noon, breakfast had felt more appropriate, given that they’d just woken up. Not to mention that eggs and bread was all the food they had in the flat.

He’d been trying very hard not to think about what had happened last night. But now that the immediate needs of broken arm and sleep and breakfast were tended to, the image of a dark and fog-draped figure, massive and misshapen, with ancient, alien eyes kept cropping up in his mind’s eye. “Sherlock,” he said, hesitantly, “what… what did we see last night?”

Sherlock had been about to turn the page, but at John’s question he stopped and met his gaze. “I think demon is as good a name for it as any,” he said quietly.

John shook his head sharply, as if he hadn’t heard right. “You’re the last person I would expect to say that,” he said. “A man of science, believing in witches and demons?”

A wry grin twisted Sherlock’s mouth. “You forget, my conclusions are informed by more than just belief,” he said, raising his left arm in its clumsy cast. “Besides, you know my methods, John,” he continued. “When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.”

“I… I just don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve seen strange things before, in Afghanistan, things I couldn’t explain, but a…” He trailed off, unable to say the word without feeling foolish.

“What would you think,” Sherlock asked, after a pause, “if you were a Victorian man brought forward to the 21st century? What would you make of cars, of electric lights?” He gestured towards John’s laptop on the floor next to his chair. “What would it look like to you, people using computers, mobile phones? What would you think of your blog?”

John thought about this for a moment. “I would think it was magic, or witchcraft,” he admitted.

“Exactly. And it’s not that electricity didn’t exist in the Victorian age, but that the people living then had neither the technology nor the science to understand it. I believe the same is likely true for much supernatural and paranormal phenomena.” Sherlock turned his attention back to his paper. “The ones that aren’t hoaxes, of course, which is all too common.”

“So… the texts, they were a… a spell of some sort?”

Sherlock nodded and took another bite of eggs. “According to one of the books in Simpson’s study, a slip of paper, inscribed with runes – the name of the entity being called, the specific commands to be followed, that kind of thing – could be passed to an individual without his or her knowledge. The entity being summoned would show up at the appointed time and be able to identify the target by the fact that he or she had the runes.”

“And to avoid their fate, the person had to find the parchment and pass it to someone else,” he mused.

“As Cavanaugh told us.”

The sun slipped behind a cloud, making the room suddenly shadowed and chill. A shiver ran down John’s back as that final, terrified scream echoed in his mind.

Sherlock’s phone rang, startling John out of his dark thoughts. He watched as Sherlock answered and his brows drew together in confusion. “No, I don’t have Simpson’s phone,” he said, irritation clear in his tone. “You should have found it on his body.” His frown deepened as he listened. “Well, we don’t have it,” he snapped. “Maybe if you hired some competent detectives, Lestrade, who could actually detect something….” He disconnected the call abruptly and tossed the phone to the desk.

“Simpson’s phone is missing?” John asked.

“Idiots, the lot of them,” Sherlock muttered. “Couldn’t find north if they had a compass.”

He scratched at the back of his neck, trying to shake off the prickle of foreboding that rose in him at the news. Sherlock glanced over at him. “It must have been destroyed when Simpson was attacked,” he said. “Even Anderson couldn’t miss something as obvious as a phone.”

“You’re probably right,” John said. It didn’t make him feel any better, though.

***

Sebastian Moran perched one hip on the desk and pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. It was battered and bloodstained but essentially intact, and he smiled as he switched it on and saw the display glow. “You know, if you’d wanted a phone, I’m sure I could have found you a nicer model,” he said lightly, handing the phone over to the slim, dark-haired man sitting behind the desk.

“No, I definitely wanted this one,” the man replied in a soft Irish accent. “This is a very special phone.”

“You’re lucky I’ve got friends who have got friends who have got friends in high places. Or at least in places where it’s still possible to blackmail a forensic technician who’s having an affair.”

Jim Moriarty smiled. “Yes, I am lucky, aren’t I?”


End file.
